Leonids flew by here last nightescorted by a blusterthat blew the trees naked.

The spouse, brave soul,weathered the pre-dawn coldin search of signs from the universein the form of falling starsinconsiderate and absentin the frosty air.

The one warming the bedwaiting, lacking luster,and never far enough off the groundto rise, or fall, or noticewhen failure was announcedsighed in the red glow of the alarm clock.

“Why not just stay in bed,you already know the outcome?”It is clearly visible in the stationary sky.The unmoving spaces howlingin between the lights.

Flashy signs like meteors are unnecessarywhen luck is worn around the neck,an albatross all feather and down.

Better to stay tuckedunder the covers, hidden,pondering success and failurebut mostly the voidcreated in the velvety blueon your own terms.

Even if the signs from god arenoticeably missing on this cold November nightthere is still room for chance,encounters, and opportunity defiant.Ready to grab lucks mantle at a moment's notice.

History may be already written,but tomorrow, we hope,will be here waiting for the both of us.Perched on a branch,arms outstretchedhoping to catch an omenfalling from the sky.

All Souls Day

The second of November heralds an arctic breeze

a blunt greeting to hunched shoulders

the quick steps of strangers

scurrying for commuter cars

groaning in the morning light

balancing coffee in chapped hands.

Every decisions should be as easy

as this gesture of empty seats.

Allowing forward movement

unencumbered and escorted

by spirits of dead relations

aided by those who remained

at home on this day of all souls.

Ambition could continue

if the line didn't end here

on the cross road of middle life.

Rough skin and bitter cups

reminders that the beds we sleep in

are of our own making.

Sleep the only opportunity for dreams

until we join the minions

honored on this day of all souls.

The Coffee Shop

Three women sit

sipping coffee in delicate cups

the color of mud, a hint of pink on the rim.

They haven't fared much better

since the sweet days of youth

when they would sit

at this same table

pulling apart yokes, their lives,

with a determined vigor

to get to the bottom of their plate

and their fate.

Sipping in a holding pattern

before a funeral of an old affair.

Thirty years gone in a flash.

Really, it is his wife they are curious about.

What did she have that made her so special? Deserving?

The bitch with the good legs and blond hair.

Her luck, an inheritance, a big house and bigger insurance plan.

Bitterness has left them hollow as the pit of growling stomachs

even after a sensible lunch.

All that is left are veins, sinew, wrinkles and space.

Three women sit

waiting as empty cups are filled, plates shuffled.

How much they have changed.

Black to gray. Thin to plump. Foolish to wise.

Then back to foolish once again.

Even beginnings of a hump

visible beneath comfortable clothes.

Talk turns to their grandchildren,

older now than they were then.

The check is split, three ways.

A tip, hefty, left for the waitress,

meant to make up for lost time.

Sleeping on Dinosaurs

Restless in an ancient bed

under a pink singing moon.

Slumber chased away by storms

that shook the rafters

and the dogs from sleep.

Waiting as rain

cascading from the eves

knocks the petals off an old rose

planted with young hands by the window.

Left are stems topped

with thorny stars.

Only a good imagination

able to restore them

to beauty in pink velvet

just like the moon.

I used to dream

about sleeping on the tails of dinosaurs.

Secured in rough scales

and toughened hide,

the harshest comment

unable to penetrate.

It was the weather

that took them down,

petals and scales,

on the precipice

of water and time.

Knocking the last of our

bloom to the ground.

Leaving only bones

in the shape of stars.

Tar Beach

We would sit

the three of us

on tar beach

no sand to reflect the heat

or water to quench the burn

only the scent of a salty brine refuge

where we perched on an abyss of black

surrounding our little islands of pink.

We would sitthe three of uslistening, to the sirens of car alarmsthe screeching wheels of the Jour own hearts beatingwaiting and wishing for transformationinto something other than what we were.

Cocooned in foolishness,

three pale girls alone in the world

ribs digging into soft flesh.

Talk of the meaning of dreams,

octopus with the eyes of a man,

flying without wings,

devils in the basement,

invisible souls growing in wombs

too small to contain their meaning

yet too large to ignore.

We would sit

the three of us

perfuming skin with orange laced oil

sliding across translucent thighs

that would dance for boys

with a wild abandon

available only to the untamed

unbroken or mad.

Willows in wooden heels

bending to the gathering storm,

maelstroms of reckless dreams,

hoping that Odysseus would succumb

to our wily ways

and save us from a future hidden

from vision in the shiny black sea.

The Cat

Every day the cat pisses in the sink

to protest his confinement and a life indoors.

Not on the patched comforter

or the couch, worn and old

whose embrace is an old friend

cushioning where he sits all day long staring,

waiting, waiting, waiting

for my return.

But in the sink,

where the stink of my own day

is washed down the drain.

Damn cat, with his constant reminders

that some are meant for grander things

Not to sit and watch the clock

praying for a key to open a fearful heart.

Piss on you my dear,

for trapping me here.

Caged against will, against want,

heart bursting at the seams.

Waiting on the sidelines as life streams by

in destiny’s shadows,

watching out windows in a waking dream.

The cat begs for release

as I wash the porcelain clean.

Swimming

Weeks past the equinox,

a little past noon

you find yourself swimming in rough waters.

The sun warm, the surf strong

breakers pull you out,

then roll you back again.

A cork, in an ill-fitting suit purchased impulsively at K-mart.

The draw and the release consume your attention.

Body bouncing and tumbling along with crabs and shells

rough territory for tender feet trained for heels.

A child’s laugh released from salty lips is worth the risk.

You, neither crab nor young, relish the buoyancy

of empty space under your feet

highs and lows,

over which you have no control.

On the shore, an umbrella stands, a little to the left

moving steadily with the current, soon out of sight.

An abandoned handbag, towel, Fritos,

a few cigarettes in case of emergency

are left unattended and prey to a hungry gull

prowling the sand like an offshoreman

roving back and forth, with angry eyes.

The motion of the sea still in his step.

You will feel it that evening, during the long drive home

sandy shorts, tight skin, with a rasp in your lungs.

Traces will be felt later

interrupting the slivers of winter

calling you back to the blue.

Brother, we all have monsters

Brother We All Have Monsters

Not all of them neatly hidden under the stairs.

Sometimes they mingle in polite company.

So much so, not even the neighbors would know.

An unwelcome manifestation in any situation.

That Jeannie out of the bottle

of a dark amber brew

no loyalty or wishes to fill a cup

of lotto vacant dreams

only something to haunt your steps

no skipping allowed.

It’s no surprise these patterns follow,

bleating an incessant alarm

on a tank long on empty

sharp quickening of hollow steps

beating the street bloody

soft itch time bombs

in a heart of hearts

kept well past prime.

A cache in a mind’s eye

blinded by what transpired long ago.

You won’t remember, can’t forget,

those monsters under the stairs

So carry on and comb your hair,

gently fix your tie,

each bootstrap lifts you up

for the stares

and a badge of bruised courage

from mother’s lacking love

father’s drunken rage.

Poor you, poor me, poor them

poorer than poor.

Destitute and lacking forgiveness

for unmentionables no one believes in

appetites not meant for the genteel

the only defense ambivalence

and silence to quell a shaking hand.

Brother, we all have monsters,

don’t think you are alone

look behind you,the darkness has spread

with a shadow’s tenacity

trailing the darkest of ink

binding any light through a peephole

or moral to the story

sorry there are no happy endings here

just our ability to whisper the tale

about camaraderie,

and of monsters

out from under the stairs.

Drink in the Darkness

Relief is required

at the close of day

when the light,

low to the ground,

stretches silhouettes across the lawn.

Purple fingers yawn from the shadows

in the last blast of sinking sun.

In the house, warm and dry,

amber sentinels sit in the stillness

on the top of the fridge.

Innocently tucked behind the onions

and potatoes in wicker baskets.

A thin coating of dust on a gold and red label

meant to fool an onlooker

into thinking that they are never touched.

Left to gather dust, in a sane house

of calm, peace and pets.

But some nights,

when the sun sets too soon,

dark fingers edge towards the foundation.

The undertow of darkness pulls even the strongest

swimmer where they don't want to go.

Tree branches no longer silent behind the window

rattle a warning to alert the guards

like the bell on a door.

Something is caught in the currents

just below the surface

of then, not now;

of now, not then.

Spinning in a whirlpool

of eternal amnesia.

Foolishness, you laugh to yourself,

shuffling plates like cards,

opening a can of neatly packed meat

for cats that curl around your legs.

You are too old to worry about shadows

and reaching fingers,

or the darkness spreading across the roof.

No need to remember what is not memorable,

Let it stay hidden to gather dust

like the solace on the fridge,

kept as talisman just in case you get shaken,

like a door in the wind.

But tonight, if the memories whisper louder than the gale,

the seal will be broken.

Amber will be fondled in a round fat glass,

the only reflections in the melting cubes

your own eyes looking for clues,

while claws and tails eat at your feet.

Good Bye (a poem for Molly)

“Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,

may keep the path, but will not reach the goal;

while he who walks in love may wander far,

yet God will bring him where the blessed are."

~ Henry van Dyke ~

I hope when it is his turn to leave

it does not come easy,

that he suffers the same fate he gave to you

but without the goodwill of redemption.

On the ride home I wonder, what causes us to behave?

Is it only the fear of retribution, condemnation, come uppence?

Is that all that separates me from him?

From others, like you uncle, destroyer of children,

my only memory of you a pair of legs.

I think about how you would meet.

A sly wink, with a handshake and a smile?

They say god never gives you more than you can handle.

God who?

Why can’t he just keep it to himself, this doling of whim?

Mother always said “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

As I watch his teeth cut through flesh powerless to stop it.

Still, my friend, I am afraid to see you leave

watch as you depart,

eyes up in your head,

holding my hand

as if you might grab my soul

and take me with you,

where I don’t want to go

not yet, not now, not ever.

Like flying, it is the taking off that scares me

not the soaring free

but traveling with eyes turned in,

shaking.

And who is this black haired woman

With ringed eyes that lament about purpose,

life, death and dead mothers?

What is her complaint?

Hasn’t she realized yet that

it is better to have had a dead mother

with a belief of love

than a living one with none?

I say goodbye to you at the door,

knowing you can’t see or hear me.

More to myself,

the one who will leave with you today,

the one I will never see again.

Pocket Change

We hold our memories like pocket change

not enough to be worthwhile,

only weight to remind us of the intentions of his hands.

The weight of walking the line

between child and grown

idiot and savant

blessed and condemned.

Children fingering the reason it turned out this way.

The fault on us

the guilty party long gone

under the weight of dirt.

Chiming a quiet note of despair

from hope

from anger

from fear

that he will come back again

waiting in the dark, to revisit our room.

Memories hiding in the dust

like a quarter in the floor board.

Still

I draw circles in the sand

still you break through.

White candles flicker.

Still the smoke is black.

Is there no talisman

to keep you outside the gate?

Heart hardened,

I sew buttons

on a shift that does not fit.

Sift through remnant shards

of breaking and entering.

I remember tips

learned at the knee of tv

of things I will never heed.

Still over and over

the same manifestation

of your face at the window.

Mistakes and missed signs

grim companions

making this possible.

Still.

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